


Enemies (of the State) to Lovers

by Anonymous



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Drama, Fix It Fic Alexei Lives, Fluff, Getting Together, Multi, Polyamory Reader Insert, This got so much longer and more intense than expected, gender neutral reader, listen i love them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 10:21:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20946749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: You never could turn an old friend away, even when her request is to hide two fugitives from the US government. You're loyal like that. And yes, you're full of so much love.





	Enemies (of the State) to Lovers

You’d lived in Hawkins all your young life, gone to school with Joyce and Jim and Scott and Sam, but unlike the rest of them, you’d gotten out. You’d waved goodbye to the tiny town and headed to Indianapolis, then Kansas, then New Mexico, chasing down weird stories wherever it took you. You looked into stories of Aliens and Government corruption with equal interest; Roswell and MKUltra both held your attention. You thought the whole Cold War was bullshit, quite frankly, and it was just two garbage governments against each other with normal citizens in the crossfire. It was not an opinion that made you many friends.

But when you heard two kids from your old hometown had gone missing, and one of them belonged to your old friend Joyce, you went back. You’d never had the loyalty to the town that people expected out of you, but you had loyalty to the people you loved in spades, even if you hadn’t seen them in years. 

And then Will was found and Barb was not, and you left again, but you promised Joyce you’d keep in touch, and you started chasing down other children, the children numbered one through ten that had to have come before that little girl. It was hard to find records of them, but you were tenacious - you found a couple promising immigration records, some falsified death reports, those sorts of things. 

When someone nearly killed you, you realized you were probably on the right track. When it happened again, you got a bunker in South Michigan and decided to lay low for awhile. The only thing that brought you out of hiding and back to Hawkins was the news that Will was unwell and the little girl called Eleven was back. 

Two supernatural, pseudo-apocalyptic events in 13 months was more than enough for you, and after Eleven told you about Eight, confirming your theory about the immigration records of the British Indian child, you kissed them on the foreheads, bid them all goodbye, and retreated back to your bunker. By your estimates, you had another year before something went wrong in Hawkins again, and you deserved a goddamn break.

Which for you meant a hell of a lot of reading, a hell of a lot of knitting, and just enough freelance journalism and investigation to pay the bills.

You were, in fact, sitting down with a book about Roswell one fine July evening when the bell rang. The interruption annoyed you not so much because you’d never read the book before - you had, three times - but because you were not a fan of visitors. They always brought fresh bullshit. 

This thought was not abated when you saw Joyce Byers with two men on your doorstep, though your heart softened a little bit.

“It’s only been six months,” you said by way of greeting. 

Joyce laughed humorlessly. “Tell me about it.” She had bags under her eyes dark enough to pass as ink, and she scrubbed one hand through her knotted brown hair. “There’s been...a situation.”

You swore. “Why didn’t you call me?” you demanded. 

She shook her head. “There wasn’t time. It all happened...so fast.”

“So did the other times.” You frowned, glancing around. “Where’s Hopper?” There were two men with her, only one of whom you vaguely recognized, and neither of them were the chief of police. 

She made a choked off sound, shoulders shuddering, and the curly-haired man - the one you didn’t recognize but definitely wanted to know - placed a hand comfortingly on her arm. His other arm was tied across his chest in a sling.

You ushered the three of them inside, sat them all down at the table, and put on the kettle for some tea. 

Joyce and the man with the beard - Murray Bauman, as it were, journalist and kindred spirit - relayed the tale in halting tones, of Russians and a mall and the Upside Down and all sorts of nonsense. The other man did not offer much, except continuing to hold a reassuring hand on Joyce’s arm.

The bags had steeped over the course of the conversation and when they finished, you took a long, scalding sip. 

“Huh.”

“I’m moving,” Joyce announced. “I’m leaving Hawkins.” 

“Do you want to stay here?” you offered, though you weren’t sure how you felt about the concept of the kids in your little haven. 

She shook her head. “This is too...remote for the kids.” She shook her head again. “No. But...Murray’s bunker is compromised, and Alexei is” - she looked over at him, gaping helplessly - “an enemy of the state? A former Soviet now hated by two governments?” She threw her hands up into the sky. “Anyway, what I’m asking is if they could stay here with you.”

“Ah.” You glanced appraisingly between the two men at your table. “For how long?”

“Indefinitely,” Joyce replied, at the same time as Murray saying, “As little as possible.”

He glared at Joyce. “I fully intend to reestablish my own home base soon,” he informed everyone in the room. 

Joyce snorted. “Good luck, then.” She turned back to you. “What do you say?”

Your home was large enough. The real problem was that you hadn’t lived with anyone else since you were a child, and you weren’t sure you remembered _how_. Then again, Murray seemed likely to keep to himself, and Alexei didn’t seem capable of speaking English, so maybe you’d still have your solitude.

“Fine.” You sighed, but your heart warmed just a little for the relieved smile Joyce gave you. There was very little you wouldn’t do for Joyce Byers. 

If nothing else, this would be an investigation of your one true love: weird shit.

***

Alexei liked cartoons and cherry slurpees. Murray liked vodka and classical music. You liked peace and quiet, both of which were hard to come by these days.

But in spite of your grumpiness, your lone nature, and your best efforts, they were growing on you. 

Alexei was learning English from cartoons, newspapers, and you, and he liked to practice by giving you the most ridiculously lavish compliments he could think of. You weren’t sure if they were ridiculous on purpose or if it was a language barrier, but when he called you ‘more beautiful than snowy winter with good spirits and wolves,’ you lost it. He seemed pleased by your laughter, and that was what mattered.

He was also teaching you Russian in return, little words for things around your house or body parts or swear words. He wasn’t great with prepositions and articles, but he was definitely a quicker study than you. 

Murray could’ve helped with your Russian, but he didn’t. Occasionally, he’d throw a compliment your way on a particularly solid pronunciation, and you were too proud to admit it, but you liked it. Fuck him, though, he didn’t get to know that.

The idea of solitude had all but disappeared - Alexei was practically always around you, hovering, and Murray somehow always ended up where you wanted to be. But oddly enough, you didn’t mind. It was nice, somehow, to have Murray reading a book on your couch or Alexei offering to help you prepare meals. You weren’t a huge fan of people, but these two had become _your_ people.

Except that was sappy as fuck and you’d never admit it out loud.

You were chopping up some vegetables for your dinner when Alexei, on cue, floated in. 

“Help?” he asked, gesturing with his uninjured arm. 

‘Your dinner’ wasn’t really accurate anymore, because when Alexei cooked, Alexei ate, and Alexei _always_ helped cook. 

You nodded and gave him some simple directions and he followed them happily as best he could. Every once in awhile, he’d ask for a clarification in Russian, and you’d give your best attempt at an answer.

He passed behind you, brushing his hand across your shoulders, and your heart fluttered. Oh, for fuck’s sake. He grinned, like he’d done it on purpose just for a reaction, and you barely restrained yourself from rolling your eyes at him.

The man was a goddamn flirt. Fucking Russians.

It’s not like it was exclusively directed at you - he gave Murray the same gentle touches. You had never heard him say any of the English compliments to Murray, but they spoke Russian to each other half the time, anyway. Who knew what they were saying.

You didn’t even want them to be exclusively for you. At this point, you were very used to sharing Alexei, and you didn’t mind it at all. It’s just that you didn’t believe he could possibly _mean_ it for you.

He separated out your meal into three plates, because while Murray never cooked, Alexei always made sure he ate. You had caught Murray baking challah in your kitchen at 2am one time, but that was the exception, not the rule. More often than not, the man would only put food in his system if Alexei placed a plate in his lap and insisted. 

It was kind of adorable, but you’d rather die than admit that.

Like clockwork, Alexei picked up a plate, took it over to where Murray was reading, stole his book, and handed him food. “Eat,” Alexei suggested, putting a bookmark in the book and the book on the table.

“Thank you.” Murray didn’t bother to look up, simply taking the fork and putting it in his mouth. He reached back to the table and opened his book again, proceeding to eat and read at the same time.

At least he cleaned the dishes sometimes, otherwise you might eviscerate him.

Alexei smiled fondly at the man, rolling his eyes, and patted Murray’s head with his free hand. “Eat.” He gestured at you too. “Is good.”

So you sat on the couch and you ate. It was nothing special, really, but you couldn’t help but feel it always tasted a little better when Alexei helped make it.

***

“Your hair is too long,” you bitched at Murray. You couldn’t explain why it bugged you, but it was getting ridiculous. 

He snorted. “I’m not spending money on a haircut.”

“I’ll do it,” you offered. “I cut my own hair.”

He gave you an appraising look. “Well, that inspires confidence.” You couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not.

But he sat in a chair and let you cut his hair with your kitchen scissors, and he closed his eyes as your fingers skated across his head, and it was the most companionable experience the two of you had ever had as the long tendrils dropped away. 

You’d seen his picture from about a year ago, something Jonathan Byers had snuck as a weird sort of retribution for Murray being insufferable, and you tried to remember how he looked in that photo. You’d never say it out loud, but you’d thought he was handsome. 

Of course, you hadn’t realized what a prick he was back then.

His hair took on a more modern shape, leaving the era of hippies and crackpots behind and returning to its former length. You trimmed his beard while you were at it, because he was in your chair and at your mercy. 

He glanced in the mirror when you were done, scrutinizing, as if he were hunting for any imperfections. You could swear the man got off on complaining. But he didn’t find any - you were good at what you did - and after awhile, he allowed a small smile through. “Not bad.”

You snorted. Damn right, not bad.

Alexei padded into the kitchen. “Me next?” he asked, shaking his head. 

It would be a sin to cut such beautiful curls, so you almost refused. But it would be a greater sin to refuse the man anything he asked.

You couldn’t help it. He was precious and he inspired a fierce protectiveness in you. Unlike Murray, who drove you crazy, Alexei could always coax a smile out of you. Often, he seemed to make it his mission to do so.

Murray sat down at your kitchen table and watched as you took Alexei’s hair carefully in your hands. It was soft and smooth and every wild curl bounced back after you let it go. Alexei practically purred as you worked your scissors and your hands and it made you feel things you weren’t sure you wanted to feel.

Goddamn pretty Russian man.

If you had to hazard a guess from the way he was watching, though, Murray was feeling those things too. You almost laughed at that. Even the hard-hearted, one-man-island bastard couldn’t resist Alexei’s charm.

When you’d finished your job, Alexei looked a lot like the scrappy man who’d shown up on your doorstep a month ago. Murray’s jaw dropped just a little, and you grinned. He was almost cute like this.

...Where the fuck did that come from?

“You?” Alexei asked, gesturing about. It took you a second, but you realized what he meant. 

You threaded your fingers through your hair. “No, thank you. I like it like this.” Alexei tilted his head, and you repeated it as best you could in Russian, though it came out more like “No, thank you. Happy.”

Alexei nodded, then winced. Immediately, Murray was on his feet, fussing over Alexei’s wounded arm.

You finally got the story out of them, a while after they moved in. Murray was cagey about it, frowning at any mention of the injury, and it’d taken you a little while to work up the Russian proficiency to understand the story from Alexei. 

He had been shot, before coming to you. The only reason he survived was because the bullet hit his arm holding a giant stuffed bird. Woody Woodpecker. It was a little haunting to think that with slightly different circumstances, you may never have met him.

“I’m going to check his healing,” Murray decided. Alexei elbowed him. “Thank you for the haircut.” 

“Thank you!” Alexei replied cheerily in his heavy accent, but his face creased in pain.

You weren’t a big believer in religion, but you sent a silent prayer out into the universe for Alexei’s well-being.

***

“How’d you get into hunting conspiracy theories?” you asked Murray one night after a bit too much to drink. You had to be drunk, else you would’ve never asked him such a personal question. The lights in your living room were low and the atmosphere was oddly intimate.

He must’ve been drunk too, or else he would never have answered you. “When you’re a poor Jew from Chicago,” he began, waving his glass, “and everyone says it’s you behind the curtain, pulling the strings, you know they’re wrong, of course, but you wonder who _is_ behind the curtain.” He shrugged. “My mother always said I had a nose for trouble.”

You quirked a smile. “Mine too.” The woman had certainly had her hands full.

He rolled his eyes. “Let me guess. Only child, always off on some adventure, never home before dark. Always stressing your parents out. Felt too big for too-small Hawkins and got the hell out the first chance you got. And you’ve been running ever since.” He squinted at you. “Did you ever find what you were looking for?” he asked with surprisingly genuine interest. 

You wondered. This wasn’t what you’d pictured, long ago - you’d been in one place for much too long. No open roads, no chasing down the Devil. But it struck you that you were happy, now, with your home and your roommates and your job and your books. 

“Did you?” you asked in reply. “Pulling at that curtain, trying to prove to the world that you’re not what they think you are.” He startled visibly, another sign of how drunk he was. “Oh, come on, Murray, I’m not stupid. You’re not the only one unfairly maligned by society, and you’re not the only one with powers of observation.”

He shrugged. “I pulled back the curtain and found more curtains and more questions,” he answered simply, taking a long sip of his drink and leaning back in your recliner. One of these days, it was going to officially become _his_ recliner, because you didn’t think you’d sat down in it once since the men came to live with you. 

“I guess we keep chasing curtains, then.” You shrugged right back and drank your own booze. You didn’t know where the ‘we’ had come from, but somehow, he’d become part of your life. You were used to him now.

Murray gestured around the two of you. “Not much running right now,” he commented dryly. 

You shook your head. “We deserve a rest, too. We deserve to be happy.”

“Are you?” he asked. 

You nodded. “I am,” you admitted. “More than I ever thought possible.”

“I’ve never been happy before.” He nodded back at you, staring deeply into his bottle. You let him go, and you hoped that was changing.

***

When your Russian became good enough, with the assistance of some dictionaries, you realized with a start that whenever Murray and Alexei slipped into rapidfire Russian, they were usually saying something filthy.

This was approximately the same time you realized they were in...some kind of relationship with each other. You’d been suspicious, of course, but they didn’t really acknowledge it in English. You kind of figured they weren’t aware how stupid in love with each other they were. 

But nobody said those kinds of things to someone they didn’t have _something_ with, and they were definitely fucking in your guest room. You knew this because of the way they’d disappear sometimes and when they reappeared, both looked disheveled, though Alexei glowed.

You also now knew they were fucking in your shower, because you could hear both of them as you walked over to use the bathroom. That was definitely two bodies in there.

You felt your face heat up. Jesus christ. And then you heard a shouted Russian curse from Alexei, and you hurried away to clean the exact opposite side of the bunker. You tried to think about something, anything besides the two men in your shower, to very little avail. You dropped your broom when your brain put Alexei’s mouth on your neck and Murray’s hands in your hair.

Oh, fuck. You were in love with them. _Both_ of them. And they were fucking each other, and living in your house, and you were well and truly ruined. 

You snatched up the broom and kept sweeping the kitchen, clenching your eyes shut, shaking your head. You hadn’t been in love in years. You thought you were done with that. 

Open the fridge, pour a glass of your strongest spirit, drain it. But not even your booze helped you shake this stupid feeling from your head. 

“(Y/n)?” Alexei was standing in the doorway, naked but for a towel and dripping. His cheeks were bright and his pupils blown.

You nearly squeaked. 

“What?” you snapped, trying to get ahold of yourself. 

“All shirts, dirty. Borrow yours?” he asked. 

_Jesus._ “Uh, yeah, sure. Wear anything.”

You continued to sweep the kitchen, then wiped down the counters. Eventually, Murray came to lean against a cabinet. 

“Someone’s being diligent.”

“It’s cleaning day,” you lied, pointedly avoiding looking at him. “I’m cleaning.”

“Hm.” He tsked. “I’ll take the bathroom, then.”

“You better,” you snapped, looking up in time to see his shit-eating grin. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. You’re a child.”

He just laughed as he left the room and you wondered. You wondered strongly. Alexei made sense; he was perfect and sweet and funny. Murray was a pain in the ass and you had no idea why you were in love with him. But you also couldn’t deny that you were.

***

“I’m gonna steal your boyfriend, Murray.”

Everything ground to a halt. Alexei’s head was in your lap, your fingers tangled in his hair, and you could feel the minute he stopped breathing. It’d been an offhand joke, really, and you were kind of drunk (again) which definitely influenced your sense of humor and things you were willing to say, but it dropped heavily.

“My what?”

You gestured at Alexei. “Your boyfriend.” Then you repeated it again in Russian, just to be clear. 

“He’s not -” Murray began awkwardly, but you held up a hand.

“You fucked in my bathroom. I know this, you know I know this, let’s cut the bullshit.” You rolled your eyes. God, the drink was strong. You eyed your empty glass, but you were tired of them dancing around things. “I don’t have a problem with it or anything.” You just wanted answers.

Alexei squinted. “Am I your boyfriend?” he demanded in Russian. 

“I -” Murray floundered, then glared at you. “Oh, look what you did.” As if his inability to commit was your fault. 

Alexei shrugged. “No matter.” And then he reached up with his uninjured hand, grabbed your jaw and pulled you into a heady and intoxicating kiss.

Alexei released your face and you almost chased him, craving more of _that_, like a fucking teenager or something.

“Oh.” Murray licked his lips. “Well.”

“If you don’t want me, maybe (Y/n) does,” Alexei teased in Russian. 

“You know I want you,” Murray crooned back. “You’ve seen how much I want you. I could always remind you...”

You made a choking noise. “Get a room, you two.”

Murray’s head snapped up. “You understand us?”

“Yes, I’m fluent enough that I’ve understood quite a lot of your dirty talk for awhile now.” You fought the urge to stick your tongue out at Murray. 

Alexei cackled. “Again?” he asked, reaching his hand out to caress your lips. 

You glanced over at Murray. “I’m confused,” you confessed, though you also really wanted to say yes. 

“I like both,” Alexei said simply. 

Murray looked at you and shrugged. “We’re already sharing a house.”

It didn’t take much more than that before Alexei was pulling you down into another kiss, and then a third, hungrily. Like he’d been waiting for this for almost as long and as hard as you’d been.

“Boyfriend,” Alexei said in Russian. “For both.”

***

Alexei had taken to sleeping in your bed some nights, and though it’d required some getting used to, you had to admit you loved the feeling of another warm body next to you. Waking up with Alexei’s head on your chest - or vice versa - never seemed to lose its appeal, and you kind of realized you’d been missing out until now.

When Alexei stayed with Murray, though, you didn’t miss him, because you knew he was right down the hall, and you knew he’d be back soon. When you woke up, he’d be in your kitchen, or perhaps using up all the hot water in your shower. 

You’d gotten used to having them around. You and Murray just kind of went along with whatever Alexei wanted, and it was a fairly effective system, but when he demanded the three of you share a bed, you were...hesitant. 

“Absolutely not.” Murray shook his head. Murray, it seemed, was more than just hesitant.

“I want both,” Alexei demanded, opting for a pout entirely unbecoming of a man his age. That said, it still made you want to do anything he asked. 

“C’mon, Murray.” You may’ve been hesitant, but giving Murray shit was always your number one priority. “Don’t be scared, I don’t bite.” 

“Yes, you do,” Alexei corrected. You rolled your eyes at him. 

Murray harrumphed, but now you’d made it about his ego, and he couldn’t back down. “Just keep your icy feet off my shins.”

“I’m actually a space heater,” you replied, “but you’ll never know.”

So you ended up in bed with Alexei and Murray, the Russian man between the two of you and a careful, respectful distance from your feet to Murray’s shins.

Murray fell asleep first, snoring gently. He looked...peaceful. The constant tension and judgment in his face melted away once he drifted off, and you couldn’t help but smile.

“You like him,” Alexei suggested. It should have been a question, but the man sounded annoyingly self-assured.

You shrugged. “He’s annoying,” you replied. It was true. He was smug, and annoying, and a know-it-all, but you liked him nonetheless.

Alexei smiled. “Me too.” Very carefully, he leaned forward to nibble your neck - no small feat, because Murray was apparently a cuddler, and he was hanging on _tight_ \- and you relaxed until both of you fell asleep. 

***

“I got a call.” 

You didn’t know how, because no one had your phone number so far as you knew, but you looked up from the paper quizzically. Alexei, sitting next to you on the couch, muted the TV to look at Murray too.

Murray scratched the back of his neck. “There’s a story out in Chicago. Police Brutality. One of my contacts told the family about me, and they want me to take the story.”

You nodded. “Alright.” Certainly a worthy cause. “When are you going? When are you coming back?”

Murray coughed awkwardly. “That’s...that’s the thing.”

You screwed up your face because you really didn’t like the sound of that. “What’s the thing?”

“He’s got a place on the far south side. Totally off the radar. To replace my old bunker.”

You put the pieces together and you didn’t like the picture. “You’re _not_ coming back.”

Alexei frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“Well, this way, I can get out of (Y/n)’s hair, get back to my job,” Murray explained, looking anywhere but at the two of you. 

You rolled your eyes. “What about Alexei? How’s he going to be with the both of us when we’re two states away?”

“That was never meant to last.”

Alexei choked, frowning further. “What?”

Murray crossed his arms, pulling his stupid fucking sweater tight around him. “I’m a lone wolf. I don’t do love or relationships. I’d rather live on my own, do my thing. And you’re better off without me.” Alexei’s face fell further and further with each word, and it didn’t matter than the conversation was in English. He knew what was happening.

“Bullshit.” You stood up, crossing to Murray, and took his face in your hands. “_Look_ at us, goddamn you.” You made unwavering eye contact. “You’re a coward, Murray Bauman.”

He bristled. “Excuse me?”

“You’re a fucking coward.” You planted your hands on your hips. “You aren’t some ‘lone wolf’ noir detective, some badass fortress of a human being. You are a man. You are a man who is in love, and who has never been this happy in his life, and is _terrified_ by that.” You pointed your finger at Alexei. “You cannot claim to be leaving for his benefit when he so obviously wants you around.”

Murray shuffled his feet, stepping backward. “Well, you don’t,” he snapped back. “And it’s your house.”

“Of _course_ I want you around,” you shouted. “You _dumbass_!”

And then he grabbed your face and he kissed you. 

It was...unexpected, to say the least, and his beard was a little itchy, but you didn’t mind it at all, you realized. His lips were chapped and stupidly desperate and his hands were clutching your jaw like a lifeline. 

The man never did anything by halves. 

You broke apart, panting, and Alexei muttered, “Finally.”

“Of course I want you around, you dumbass,” you repeated. “Go to Chicago, chase your story. But you better come home to us, alright?”

Murray nodded, dumbfounded. “I’ll come home.” And then, just for good measure, he kissed you again.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how this got so long but oh lord, I had the idea and it refused to go away. I am stupidly in love with these two, and I'm so happy with where this went.  
Hope y'all enjoyed!


End file.
